pain, the anger and fury, and the passion…. As damning as it was exciting. Closing his eyes, he reined in his runaway emotions—emotions over which he usually had tight control. Except where Kaylie was concerned.
“Fool.” Straightening, he poured himself a stiff shot. “Here’s to old times,” he muttered, then tossed back most of the drink, the warm, aged liquor hitting the back of his throat in a fiery splash.
Home at last, he thought ironically, topping off his glass again as he sauntered to the French doors.
Through the paned glass, he stared down the cliff to the beach below. Relief, in a wave, washed over him. There she was—safe! With no madman stalking her. She walked from the surf, wringing saltwater from her long, sun-streaked hair as if she hadn’t a care in the world. If she only knew.
Wearing only a white one-piece swimming suit that molded to her body, sculpting her breasts and exposing the tanned length of her slim legs, she tossed her thick, curly mane over her shoulders.
His gut tightened as he watched her bend over and scoop up a towel from the white sand. The next couple of weeks were going to be hell.
* * *
Kaylie shook the sand from her towel, then looped the terry cloth around her neck. The last few rays of sun dried the water on her back and warmed her shoulders as she slipped into her thongs and cast one last longing glance at the sea. Sailboats skimmed the horizon, dark silhouettes against a blaze of magenta and gold. Gulls wheeled high overhead, filling the air with their lonely cries.
The beach was nearly deserted as she climbed up the weathered staircase to the house. Leaving her thongs on the deck, she pushed open the back door, then tossed her towel into the hamper in the laundry room. Maybe she’d pour herself a glass of wine. Pulling down the strap of her bathing suit, she headed for the bedroom. First a long, hot shower and then—
“How’re you, Kaylie?” a familiar voice drawled.
Kaylie gasped, stopping dead in her tracks. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she spun around quickly, drops from her hair spraying against the wall. Zane? Here? Now? Why?
Draped over the couch, long jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, he looked as damnably masculine as he ever had. His ankles were crossed, his expression bland, except for the lifting of one dark brow. However, she knew him too well and expected his pose of studied relaxation was all for show.
His steely gray gaze touched hers, and his lips quirked. For a few seconds she remembered how much she had loved him, how much she had wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. With an effort, she closed her mind to such traitorous thoughts. Her throat worked, and slowly she became conscious that one strap of her swimsuit dangled over her forearm, leaving the swell of her breast exposed.
“W-what the devil are you doing here—trying to scare me to death?” she finally sputtered, adjusting the strap back over her shoulder. But before he could respond, she changed her mind and shook her head. She wasn’t up to talking to Zane—not now, probably not ever. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I don’t think I want to know.”
He didn’t budge, damn him, just lounged there, on her couch, drinking her Scotch, stretched out and making himself comfortable. His nerve was unbelievable, and yet there was something about him, something restless and dangerous that still touched a forbidden part of her heart. And she knew he wouldn’t have shown up without a reason.
His scuffed running shoes dropped to the floor. “You didn’t call me back.”
She felt a jab of guilt. She’d gotten his messages, but hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to him. “And that’s why you’re here?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Oh, please, don’t start with this,” she said, reminded of the reasons she’d divorced him, his all-consuming need to protect her. “You don’t have to worry about me or even be concerned that—”
“Lee Johnston’s going to be released.”
The words were like frigid water poured over her, stopping her cold. Zane’s feigned casualness disappeared.
“He’s what?” she whispered. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Lee Johnston, a short, burly man with flaming red hair and lifeless blue eyes. And she remembered the knife—oh, God, the long-bladed knife that he’d pressed to her throat.
“Y-you’re sure about this?” Oh, Lord, how could she keep her voice from quavering? The look on his face convinced her that he believed she was in grave danger, and yet she didn’t want to believe it. Not entirely. There were too many dimensions to Zane to take anything he said at face value. Although she’d never known him to lie.
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Someone called me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone who called himself ‘Ted.’”
“Ted? Ted who?” she asked.
“I wish I knew. I thought maybe you could help me figure it out,” he admitted, launching into his short tale and starting with the first nerve-jangling call from “Ted,” and ending with his gut feeling that Dr. Henshaw was holding out on him. “Do you have a recorder—a tape player?”
She nodded mutely, then retrieved the portable player from her bedroom. Zane picked up his jacket and took out a small tape, which he snapped into the machine. A few seconds later, “Ted’s” warning echoed through the room.
“Oh, my God,” Kaylie whispered, her hand to her mouth. She listened to the tape twice, her insides wrenching as the warning was repeated. Zane, though he attempted to appear calm, was coiled tightly, his features tense, his eyes flicking from her to the corners of the room, as if he half expected someone to jump out and attack her.
Why now? she wondered frantically. Why ever?
She bit her lower lip, then thinking it a sign of weakness, stopped just as the tape clicked off. “Why did this ‘Ted’ guy call you? Why not me?”
“Beats me,” Zane admitted, sipping amber liquor from a short glass, his jaw sliding pensively to the side. “None of this is official. At least not yet.” Zane’s features were hard, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. “So far we’ve only got this guy’s—whoever he is—word for it. I talked with Johnston’s psychiatrist and I didn’t like what he said.”
“But he didn’t say Johnston would be released.” She turned pleading eyes up at him.
“No, but I’ve got a gut feeling on this one. Henshaw was being too careful. My bet is that the man’s going to walk, Kaylie. Whoever called me had a reason.”
“Oh, God.” Her whole body shook. Stark moments of terror returned—memories of a deranged man who’d sworn he’d kill for her. “They can’t let him go. He’s sick! Beyond sick!”
Zane lifted a shoulder. “He’s been locked up a long time. Model patient. It wouldn’t surprise me if the courts decide he got better.”
Her world spun back to that horrible night when Johnston had threatened her, waved a knife in front of her eyes, his other arm hard against her stomach as
